


Overwhelm

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Closed Eyes Open Mouth, Complete Overwhelm, Double Oral Penetration, M/M, Multi, No Case On, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Overwhelmed Sherlock, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex as Therapy, Sharing, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 14:49:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4670735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No case on, and Sherlock was starting to feel incorporeal—his unoccupied mind a cloud of disconnected data and trivia evaporating into a soupy fog expanding to fill his head, pouring into his limbs, thickening in his chest—as if his entire self could be blown away or even completely apart with one well-aimed breath. He needed to be contained, pressurized, held fast, his psyche compressed and reined in. Saying those words was nothing they could work with; it was a puzzle, and they required an order."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overwhelm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HHarris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HHarris/gifts), [YoursTruly (Lyscey)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyscey/gifts).



> Half a dozen speculative johnlockstrade tweets turns into this 2600 word fic. Of course! All credit to Holly and YT for engaging in this behaviour in broad daylight, and inspiring this story.

Sherlock’s mind palace is flooded.

Clear water warm as a bath, smelling of nutmeg and the smoke from burning autumn leaves, is pouring in over every window sill, oozing under every closed door, fattening the books on the shelves. It rises and rises, calf-high, mid-thigh, up to his waist now and Sherlock is wound round with blankets: wine-red, with weights sewn in to hold him snug. His arms embrace his own chest beneath the welcome squeeze of warm, wet, cotton, only his face exposed to the air, closed-eyed, and soon enough the water will lift him off his feet, lay him gently down, float him on his back and rock him like some preborn thing in a womb. It is dark. The only sound—distantly, far down corridors, up seventeen steps, round the corner, behind closed doors—is John’s voice, upward-inflected. Sherlock cannot hear the words, could not reply if he wished to. He only hums, quietly, affirmative.

“ _Mm_.”

John’s voice again, and a hand on Sherlock’s head, on his cheek, a thumb in his mouth, pressing down hard behind his lower teeth.

“Maybe we should stop, I think we’re losing him.”

Sherlock whimpers protest, pushes futilely against John’s thumb, trying to force it out of his mouth. He is _not_ lost. He’s _perfect_. John shakes him by the chin and Sherlock swims up from the depths.

His head is in John’s lap. He is nuzzling, snuffling, digging in with chin and nose, and his mouth is open, saliva trickling from the corners, his lips and tongue reaching for John’s impossibly thick, hot prick. He’s propped up on his knees with pillows under his middle, and Greg is somewhere behind him, holding his arse cheeks apart so he can watch his prick sliding in and out of Sherlock’s body. All of this is clear to him for just a few seconds—by god, they are as genius as he is, in their way—and John snaps fingers beside Sherlock’s ear, asks in his concerned-lover voice (half-tone higher than his concerned-doctor voice), “Sherlock. Are you still with us?”

Sherlock nods quick and hard against John’s thigh.

“God, you’re in slow-motion.”

Or not quick and hard. Lazy and crooked, then.

“Tell me you’re still with us, Sweetheart. Your eyes rolled backward and didn’t come down again for a few seconds there.” A hand—one of Greg’s—slides over his hip, medium pressure because they know Sherlock is merely irritated by being touched too lightly.

“I’m here,” Sherlock says, and lifts his gaze to John’s face, fixes on John’s dark blue eyes as he rolls his head sideways against John’s thigh. Sherlock lets out a long, contented groan. “Perfect,” he growls, and it has seventeen syllables. Then: “More.”

*

It started hours earlier with a three word text message that undoubtedly spurred Greg and John to a bout of furious communication—that was their bit; Sherlock found it tedious, mood-deadening, the brand of _boring_ that killed him by measures—texts about what was needed, and emails discussing how much time, and then in hushed-voiced phone calls about who would say what and who would touch whom in what way and _ah, yes, wonderful idea!_ and _hmm, dunno, maybe another time?_ The two of them sorted it and by the time Sherlock put his key in the lock of the black door to 221B, all he need do was exist. He trusted they would give him precisely what he needed, because it had long ago been established Sherlock only sometimes knew what he felt, rarely knew what he wanted, and almost never knew what he needed. He could start a sentence with _I want—, I need—, I feel—_. . . but seldom could he finish it in a satisfactory way. Certainly he barely said please. Never did he ask. A quick command his lovers would know was actually simultaneously request and admission and plea in an efficient—if terse—package.

No case on, and Sherlock was starting to feel incorporeal—his unoccupied mind a cloud of disconnected data and trivia evaporating into a soupy fog expanding to fill his head, pouring into his limbs, thickening in his chest—as if his entire self could be blown away or even completely apart with one well-aimed breath. He needed to be contained, pressurized, held fast, his psyche compressed and reined in. Saying those words was nothing they could work with; it was a puzzle, and they required an order.

_Take me over.—SH_

*

In the door off the landing, and they were on him. John in front, Greg behind. Palms cradling his skull, fingers digging in past his hair to press and drag against his scalp. Heat of their bodies close, radiant. Hands at his waist. Tight grip and slide down his upper arms, squeezing his elbows, then heat and damp and gusts of wind against his throat, his closed eye, the back of his neck where his hair started, his jaw. His clothes coming off. Sounds of rumbling awe from low in their chests. Pushing, pulling, arranging his limbs. Into the bedroom, never breaking contact, tugging his hair to shake his head on his neck—not unkindly, merely perfect—weighted grip on his shoulder, the back of his neck, and he dropped his head and hummed his surrender.

Hands everywhere, pressing-compressing—medium pressure, never too light—and Sherlock kept his eyes closed to lessen the sensory input, damp it down to just the sounds they made, the feel of their hands and mouths, the hair of their thighs as they stood close and dragged his head by his hair so his cheeks brushed their legs. He reached out his arms in silent plea and they slotted together so he could embrace three muscular legs ( _missed one, ‘salright nevermind_ ); they smelled of each other here at the creases: low and musty and chemical and heat. Sherlock pushed in his face and burrowed. Their hands in his hair chased and shoved each other so that it seemed Greg’s thick fingers were part of John’s delicate hands and Sherlock surrendered to the confusion. They kept moving him, moving themselves, he couldn’t keep track, stopped trying, and their kisses, touches, nudges, hums, grunts, came at him from everywhere, a wonderful too-much Sherlock let himself fall into.

His lovers’ hands tilted up his chin, pried apart his lips, fingers deep inside and Sherlock sucked, licked, _opened_ , and now a kiss; his head turned, another kiss; head turned again, tongue; shifted, lips, teeth, _opened_ , suckled, two tongues, just one tongue-tip, a sigh into his mouth, fingers, thin dry lips, prominent teeth, bossy tongue. Their voices tangling up together, tripping over each other’s words, you’re gorgeous open your mouth darling _you’re perfect_ so perfect. Fingers pressing in again, dragging his own saliva across his lower lip and then the fat, salty crown of a cock pushing forward, that’s it open your mouth oh sweetheart you look so good _open_ , _open_.

He knew them then for a few minutes, by taste and texture and shape. By the way Greg pushed in steady, deep, not to choke him but to let him feel owned, not unkind, only perfect. By the way John hiccupped high-pitched, breathy gasps as he rocked in, then back, then in, then back, and by the way his thumb feathered against Sherlock’s eye socket to brush away an oozing tear. There was no sense to it, no rhythm for Sherlock to settle into or even become conscious of—a long moment tasting John, curling out his lower lip to cradle the thick weight of him; then his head was persuaded to turn, and Greg was there, rough and quick and deep, only for a few seconds, then back again, and then again, and Sherlock surrendered to the manhandling, kept his mouth working and open and wet regardless of what they put into it.

Praising him, hands on his shoulder, his jaw, his hair, prodding and pinching and guiding and soothing him, and all the while their voices—John’s a tendersweet almost-croon, Greg’s demanding and sharp but not loud. The string of endearments Sherlock would never allow in any other circumstance: sweetheart, love, duck, darling, pet, poppet. His jaw ached and his throat grew sore and his knees were sure to be bruised later but _let it go, let it go_ , nevermind pet, nevermind sweetheart you’re doing so well oh that’s good _so good_. Greg and John leaned across, miles above his swimming head, to kiss each other; the sound of their smacking mouths echoed pleasantly in his ears and he sucked, licked, rolled out a head-clearing moan.

He’d already given up hoping for breath, for rest, when all at once his lips and tongue were around and between, over and under, tasting, smelling, smearing, sucking on the crowns of both their cocks at once—their thick-thin fingers teasing at their foreskins, dipping in to touch Sherlock’s tongue, knuckles bumping his cheeks and chin as they worked themselves near and into his mouth. That was when the floodtide began to spill the banks of the mind palace windows, ease in through the cracks beneath every door, and the sheer overwhelm of their smells, sounds, touch, deliciously ( _perfectly_ ) overwhelmed him— _take me over_ —and he held close and sank down.

They must have rearranged him for here was White. Chemical softeners. Cotton. Detergent. Bleach. John’s cheap shampoo. Greg’s expensive shaving soap. Sherlock’s sweat—and Greg’s, and John’s—and body salts and sour warmth and musky dried cum here and here and here and here.

“Here, poppet, lift your knees.”

“Open your mouth, sweetheart.”

Wet thrusting into him absolutely everywhere. Sharply sucking air.

“You taste so good.”

“ _Mmm_. . .open, Sherlock, _open._ . .”

Gaping mouth, sweaty skin adhering, then the sting of separation, and fingers and tongues and soothing barks, cruel murmurs, _perfect_ , gorgeous, doing so well, _perfect_. Love. Pet.

“Here, let me.”

“Nearly there but he needs more.”

A thick jolt of pleasure deep, _so deep_ , and his belly curled and flexed. Medium pressure. Hands dragging up one side of his torso, mouth on his nipple, fist gripping his ankle, ice-cool slick warming on his skin, fingertips skidding through, the thrum of pleasure at each stroke, thrust, stroke, thrust, and now a tongue barging into his mouth, and now fingers pinching, tugging, gripping.

“Over you go.”

Knees aching even on the shifting-soft surface, deep inhale that smells of the sweat of their heads, three different after shaves, _perfect, perfect_ , his head guided up, elbows up, palms down, _open your mouth_ , softly now, softly. Emptiness, anticipation, a rolling motion that sends him sprawling but then hands on his hips, setting his trembling thighs in place, warm, slick fingers winding around him and sliding sticky-slow, rolling him, dragging, and _Huh. . .Huh. . .Huh. . .Huh_. Fingers in his mouth. _Huh. . .Huh_. Tongue in his mouth. _Huh. . .Huh. . .Huh_. Face in the pillow and a long, low _oohhhhhh_ , endless, gorgeous, perfect, god look at how well you take that.

“My go.”

“I’ll hold him.”

He is all knees and elbows and long feet and he is a bag of melting sand shifting, arranged to their liking, which way is up, bleach, wet, _open your mouth_ , surrounded, cradled, slippery palm, _p u l l i n g_ , and his breath is a loud rasp as he surfaces.

On his back again. John hovering above on all fours but with his arms wrapped around his back, behind his shoulders, holding him, breathing against his face. His backside dragged up onto Greg’s lap, Greg’s cock teasing at him, so soft and open. John kisses his temple, and his eyes close and when Greg thrusts in and hits the spot, he thinks for an instant of an electric eel and is at once sucked down again in a whirlpool that twists him up in blankets, deposits him in a room full of memories to wait for the water’s rise.

Crackling heat and obscene shouts in time with each lightning-burst echo loud and hoarse inside his own head, and somewhere else, ill-syncopated chanting in two tenor voices: yeah, yeah, ah yeah, yeah.

“So good.”

“On your knees, now. There’s a good lad.”

Fingers. Cradling. _Open_ , Sherlock, poppet, sweetheart. _Open_. Skin and hair. Medium pressure _. Huh. . .Huh. . .Huh_. Here, up here now. That’s it. Lean on me.

Face up, face down. Crowded, weighted. Wet and slick and cool and hot and a long, low _oohhhhhh_ that goes on forever. A coiling tingle deep inside, nowhere near his brain. The water rising. Staying down.

“Maybe we should stop, I think we’re losing him.”

Never has he felt so ferocious about proving someone wrong. Sherlock swims to the surface, finds himself sweat-slicked and muzzy-headed, his open mouth nuzzling for John’s reddened prick, his cheek against John’s thigh, back bowed, spine languid, Greg’s thick fingers digging in as he spreads Sherlock open; he likes to watch himself as he fucks; Sherlock’s seen it—felt it—before. John is explaining something: Sherlock’s eyes.

“I’m here,” he asserts, though his lips and tongue feel fat and useless. “Perfect,” he manages to groan at them. Then, his most strident demand: “More.”

“You must stay with us, sweetheart,” John says, and rakes fingers through Sherlock’s hair until they catch. “If you look like you’re passing out again, we’ll have to call it a night.”

Greg withdraws with a high whine that originates behind his nose. Sherlock floats. They rearrange him and he lets himself sink, the flood in the mind palace is higher than ever; soon his face will scrape the ceiling as the water bears him down the corridors. A bright flash of pleasure that shoves him up to the surface for air. Knees spread wide and feet tucked beneath, his back is against John’s chest, and John’s cock is inside him, rocking up into him, and John is licking, kissing, breathing against his throat, his jaw. Greg half-kneels, half-sprawls between their four wide-open thighs and manages to get his slippery fingers around both his and Sherlock’s pricks, leaning his chest heavily on Sherlock’s as he begins to stroke in time with John’s thrusts, unhurried, but purposeful. Steady at Sherlock’s back. Weighing him down in front. Their breathing is broken and out of sync, grunting, moaning, sighing, teeth and lips and Sherlock bends his arms at odd angles to catch and cradle the back of each head, feels the heat of pleasure rising, the water rising, overwhelmed, compressed, reined in, contained, and a long, low _oohhhhhh_ that shudders and stumbles over itself as he goes down for the last time, opening his mouth for a great breath of floodwater to drown him, and as he touches bottom he hears them mutter and shout, singing to him, oh poppet, oh sweetheart, you good lad, you’ve done so well.

Inside his skin is a thrumming bliss, warm and with a well-defined outline:  his limbs, the bowl of his belly, his hollow chest, his dimmed-down, oozy brain. Outside his skin, but barely, are two warm beings he knows by scent, by the inch-long curved hairs they leave behind, by the way there is one broad back against his chest, one broad chest against his back, ankles in a tangle, hands on his hip, his elbow, their fingers meshed together, the sounds of their breath, and they have taken him over and now will keep him—just here—until he wakes.

 

 

 

 


End file.
